


Fix You

by golden_gardenias



Series: Gallavich Week 2014 [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Gallavich Week, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-10 00:32:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2004006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_gardenias/pseuds/golden_gardenias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gallaghers don't do therapy.  Neither do Milkoviches.</p><p>Except, of course, when Ian needs them to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fix You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Gallavich Week 2014 Day 2: After 4x12. Originally published on Tumblr 6/17/14.

Mickey Milkovich hated doctors.

He didn’t know where the hatred came from, but suspected it had something to do with his intense fear of needles—a fear that no one knew about and no one would ever know about, ever—and a viewing of the film  _Dr. Giggles_  when he was much too young to work through the trauma.  So he tended to avoid hospitals and clinics like the plague.  Ironic, considering all the times he’d been injured and had probably needed medical attention.

His hatred only increased after Fiona’s visit during Ian’s first depressive episode.  Now they were the nameless creatures in his nightmares, dragging Ian out of bed and keeping Mickey away from him.  They were the faceless monsters who made Ian scream and cry and beg while Mickey watched helplessly.  They were the sadistic grins and cold eyes and prodding fingers, ignoring Ian’s tearful pleas and Mickey’s shouted threats.

He’d started sleeping with his door locked and barricaded.

But when Ian’s brother Carl had somehow managed to get a doctor to the Milkovich house to see him, and that doctor had given them an official diagnosis, it seemed he had no choice but to endure.

He’d been taking care of Ian for twelve days before that doctor had shown up on their doorstep with Carl standing threateningly behind him.  Twelve days of _please eat_  and  _drink this_ and  _get up_  and  _talk to me_.  Twelve days of  _leave me alone_  and  _go away_  and listening to Ian cry himself back to sleep.  Twelve days of waking up in a cold sweat, twelve days of keeping the silverware drawer locked, twelve days of no guns in the house, twelve days of no razors left in the bathroom.

He’d barely left the house, and when he did he brought the key to the knife drawer with him and made sure Mandy was staying with Ian.  He couldn’t stay out for more than a couple hours before his fingers would itch to call and check on him, before he’d start imagining his nightmares coming true, before he’d panic at  _what if Svetlana left her razor out_  and  _shit we never locked the medicine cabinet_.

But whenever he came home, Ian was still laying there, facing the wall.

He didn’t know whether he should be relieved or distressed.

Once the doctor left, Mandy brought Debbie over to do some research, and they determined that since mental illnesses are family diseases, they should all see a family therapist, so they could all learn how best to help Ian and help themselves deal with his bipolar disorder.

That’s why he’s sitting in a waiting room right now, holding Ian’s hand (or is Ian holding his?) while Fiona tries not to watch, Lip stares, and Mandy alternates her gaze between Lip’s profile and the clock on the wall behind him.

“Gallagher?”

All of their heads snapped up at the woman’s voice.  She was standing in the doorway of one of the offices lining the hallway, wearing a grey pencil skirt and a white button-up blouse, blond hair styled into a half-ponytail, holding a file folder with Ian’s name on it.  There wasn’t much in it, just a brief summary of the findings of the doctor Carl had forced to see him and what they’d told him about Monica.

She walked over to them, smiling warmly.  “You must be Ian.  I’m Dr. Grayson.” She held her left hand out to him, and Mickey found himself thinking that if they had to take him to a doctor, at least it was this one, who didn’t bat an eyelash at their clasped hands and made an effort to keep them together.

Ian’s grip during their handshake was loose, as if he didn’t have the energy to do it properly.  The doctor didn’t seem to mind, still smiling encouragingly.  She stepped back to address them all.  “If you would please step into my office,” she said, gesturing toward the still open door.  The group of five filed in, and she closed the door behind them.

The office was bigger than what Mickey had been expecting; there was a large window behind her desk overlooking the parking lot, two bookcases lining each wall with shelves full of medical journals, newspapers, mystery novels, and some other books he’d never read, a small couch, and some chairs.

Dr. Grayson settled behind her desk and invited them to sit.  Ian hadn’t let go of Mickey’s hand (or was it Mickey’s grip that tightened, making their sweaty palms slide against each other?), so they settled on the couch.  Mandy sat next to Mickey, leaving Fiona and Lip the chairs.

A blank sheet of paper was clipped into Ian’s file, and Dr. Grayson’s pen was poised above it.  “How about we start with introductions?  I’m Adelaide, and I’m a psychiatrist, which means that I’ll be the one to prescribe your medications and adjust the dosages if need be.” Her eyes rested on each of them above her glasses expectantly.

Fiona spoke up first.  “I’m Fiona Gallagher, Ian’s older sister.”

She made a note, her handwriting surprisingly neat.  “And how old are you, Fiona?”

“Twenty-three.”

Adelaide nodded.  “And you?” she asked, looking at Lip.

“I’m Philip, Ian’s brother, but I go by Lip.  And I’m nineteen.”

“Mhm,” she said, writing.  Her eyes fixed on Mandy next.

“Mandy.  Eighteen.”

“Are you a Gallagher too, Mandy?”

She snorted.  “No, it’s Milkovich.  M-i-l-k-o-v-i-c-h.”

Dr. Grayson added it to her list.  “And you?” she asked.

“Mickey.  Nineteen.”  Tension grew in his shoulders, and the skin around his knuckles itched.

An awkward silence settled over them, and Dr. Grayson’s hazel eyes settled on each of them a few times before she broke it.  “So why don’t you tell me why we’re all here, hm?”

It was directed to the room at large; Fiona answered.  “Ian’s bipolar, and we want to get him help.”  Lip nodded in agreement.

Dr. Grayson turned to Ian.  “Ian?” she asked, waiting for him to look at her.  “Do you want my help?”

Her voice was so soft and gentle, as if Ian were fragile.  Mickey had never been that careful with him, was always hard hands and rough edges and blunt fingertips and harsh words.  His hand spasmed involuntarily around Ian’s, squeezing.

Ian looked at him for a moment, eyes sad.  “I want to get better,” he said quietly.

Adelaide’s answering smile was friendly, and Mickey found himself trusting it.

Her smile was like Ian’s.


End file.
